


That Which Is Important

by journeytogallifrey



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Captivity, Credence knew the real Graves first, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Legilimency, M/M, Magical Badass Percival Graves, Mind Invasion, Occlumency, this fic is basically 'zen or you die'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journeytogallifrey/pseuds/journeytogallifrey
Summary: A safe and a mind can be cracked in two very different ways, but for Graves they have become the same. Grindelwald only chose Credence to manipulate because Graves knew him first. Now, as Grindelwald's captive, Graves fights to shield his mind from invasion, protecting his memories of MACUSA and of the young man who was just beginning to trust him. With every Legilimency battle, Graves grows weaker, but he will never stop fighting - because he has something to protect, and he has failed one time too many already. Credence Barebone must be saved, at any cost."Should I give you a memory of him with me? You didn’t like that the last time we tried it. Let’s try it again.”





	That Which Is Important

Graves might have stopped berating himself quite so constantly by now, if it weren’t for the boy.

There would still be plenty of blame to take. He knows he made a series of foolish decisions – he’s fired Aurors for less. Sitting alone on this sad excuse for a bed, he’s thought of a thousand simple ways he could have saved himself from Grindelwald. A thousand actions he would give anything to go back and change. But he’s had time to come to terms with his own mistakes, bearing his captivity as penance and using his days to think of ways to escape and make things right.

Only one decision, then, still dominates his thoughts and fills his clouded mind with guilt and horror. He will never forgive himself for bringing this mess into the life of Credence Barebone.

 

Grindelwald doesn’t come by as often as he used to. Graves knows what that means: his Dark plans need tending, as they are finally bearing fruit. He’s busy out there in the open city, impersonating the head of Magical Law Enforcement and doing Merlin knows what to unsuspecting No-Majs. On his weaker days, Graves is almost grateful for this reprieve. Even the crushing despair of solitude is better than Grindelwald’s visits. But it’s horrible to be grateful for a distraction that signifies oncoming world war.

When the door to his prison creaks open, Graves doesn’t have the energy to look up. He feels the light from the hall spill over his closed eyelids. The door shuts, and Graves still doesn’t move, though he knows he’s now in the presence of a monster. There’s something he likes about this motionless limbo. Of course, he couldn’t move much even if he wanted to – trapped by the cloudy weakness, the sapped strength of his limbs – but he thinks that ignoring Grindelwald might look like resistance. That was very important to him, once. When he was clear-headed and newly-trapped and angry, he resisted everything with proud defiance. He remembers trying to hold onto that. He remembers that when the cloudy weakness began to fill him, he kept telling himself to resist, over and over until it traced an imprint onto his future. Even on his weakest days, he remembers how important it is to fight.

There is a quiet murmur from across the room and Graves feels the golden glow of strength creep into him. It’s barely anything – just enough for him to open his eyes and struggle upright to a position slumped against the wall – but it’s more than he’s had in days. Maybe a full week. He’s been desperate for it, craving and hating himself for the craving, and now that he’s been given a taste of it he has to fight down a whimper and force himself not to ask for more. Instead he stares blankly at Grindelwald through the one-way Shield Charm. Everything about Grindelwald is still Transfigured to match Graves exactly, including his hand… which is wielding a wand Graves has never touched. A sharp stab of envy and longing runs him through at the sight. Only the weakness of his muscles, the difficulty of any motion, stops his face from showing his reaction. When he was stronger, he wouldn’t even have needed a wand to blast his cell door off its hinges. These days he would need a wand to stand.

“Are you feeling up to a little talk?” asks Grindelwald. He’s watching Graves with unnerving focus. Apparently he decides that Graves is strong enough to work with, because he cuts off the strengthening spell with a sharp motion. ‘The strengthening spell…’ So vague a term, but Graves has never been able to make out the incantation. He’s come to crave it and yet he doesn’t even know its name.

“I could be more useful to you if I were stronger.”

Grindelwald regards him flatly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you actually _tried_ to manipulate me. I can’t even call that an attempt. Before you were at least worth a conversation, but now…” He flicks a hand towards Graves, indicating him in his pathetic entirety. “This is just pitiful.”

_You made me this way,_ Graves thinks, seething, but Grindelwald’s attention is already elsewhere; he’s turning away. He faces the slim box that adorns the wall behind him and places his wand inside. He’s making a show of it, moving so slowly. The lid closes at an excruciating pace. Once sealed, it won’t allow anyone but Grindelwald to open it. Graves makes an enormous mental effort to keep himself from lunging forward. It’s such an old battle instinct – to go after your opponent’s wand the moment it is separated from them. But after several such attempts near the start of his captivity, he has learned that he will instantly fall, without even enough strength to reach the shield that would stop him anyway.

As soon as the box’s lid seals, Grindelwald steps forward and gestures, erecting a second shield around them both. The wand and the door are both beyond it. A flick of his hand removes the original shield, and now there is nothing between the two wizards but air.

At Grindelwald’s next step closer, Graves makes a weak movement with his palm sweeping upwards. It’s an old favorite of a spell, dear to him and performed over and over until he could once cast it perfectly without a second thought. But this time there is no arc of brilliant blue light. Only three blue sparks that fizzle to the floor, taking precious dregs of his strength with them.

Grindelwald laughs a little as he finally stops his march forward. He folds his arms and leans back on his heels, not so much malicious as incredulous. “Was that meant to be a _Caelarius_? Or _Pinna Vitria_? I honestly couldn’t tell.”

Wordless and wandless, Graves should be able to take down a dozen men. He’s won duels that way. The strongest of the Aurors, strongest in MACUSA, maybe the strongest of all American wizards. But Grindelwald is not American, and the Darkness has made him stronger.

“How… are you draining my magic?” Graves asks between breaths. “I’ve never seen the like. Indulge… my curiosity?”

“And have you find a loophole? Slip your way out of here like a rat? No. You won’t get me boasting about my plans.”

Graves lets his eyes shut for a moment. (They are always threatening to shut anyway.) “Perhaps… I will notice a loophole. If you tell me your plan for New York. A loophole… for you to close, before it ruins you. Wouldn’t that… be helpful? Another mind to check your work. You would pry it out of my head… anyway. And we both know I’m not going anywhere.”

He knows Grindelwald will never surrender his plans, of course, even as he offers his clumsy persuasion, but the scornful pity in Grindelwald’s expression makes Graves regret reopening his eyes at all. He hates seeing his own face twist into these strange shapes, unrecognizable. “I have more interesting things to pry out of your head, Graves.”

So it’s time for the main event, then. It shouldn’t surprise him. There is only ever so long he can stall before Grindelwald’s focus turns to his secrets and the inevitable assault on his mind begins. Graves notices his own hands clutching together so hard that the knuckles turn white, but his mind is splitting into too many directions for him to focus on loosening them. Panic is dangerous. Panic could ruin him. Still, it eats at the edges of him ravenously.

He falls back on his training. Every Auror takes some Occlumency lessons; he had ambitions and took many more than most. He may be weak now, but he remembers being clear-headed and resilient during the very first sessions with Grindelwald, and those decisions and tactics are burned into his memory. He can repeat them long after his mind’s strength for invention fades, for as long as he lives – at least, as long as Grindelwald allows (or forces?) him to live.

Grindelwald seems to be focused inward, preparing, and so Graves prepares too. He delves into his own mind and begins with what to set aside. His patchwork plans for escape, his fears and particular weaknesses – all swept away, visualized as clouds on a windy day or water in a flowing river. He lets his thoughts drop out from around him, and in the center he finds the core of his Self, just barely changed by captivity. He steps through his mind and touches each object just briefly, like assessing furniture in a stranger’s house. Not giving undue attention to any particular one. Not revealing what is important. Just noticing what is there and moving on.

Not pausing at all when his mind turns to Credence. Simply moving by Credence as if he is unimportant, because that is the only way to save him. Burying Credence’s name so deeply that even he might have difficulty finding it again. No lingering on it – no emotions splayed out for Grindelwald to see. Not again. That is the mistake he will never make again.

And he passes by the memory of that mistake as if it, too, is unimportant. With his thoughts in perfect random order, he retreats beyond the blank wall surrounding his mind, turns all of his focus to that blankness, and waits. He allows only certain harmless details to bubble up in front of the wall – decoys for Grindelwald to snap after.

_Blankness. Serenity. The feeling of the worn mattress here beneath my fingertips. Smooth stone. White. Sky. The weariness in my bones. Calm. Nothingness. Oblivion._

Grindelwald’s hand approaches his chin, and Graves snaps his head up before it can make contact, locking their eyes because if he doesn’t then Grindelwald will make him do it anyway.

Grindelwald stares at him from too-familiar eyes and speaks. “What is kept in room seven-oh-one of MACUSA’s headquarters?”

Graves lets the words wash over him without meaning. _Room, seven, blankness, MACUSA, nothing, a burbling stream._ None of this is personal to him. He is no one. He is blank. He makes his stare blank, too. Nothing is permanent inside his mind except for the wall. A few mental tendrils from Grindelwald are unfurling towards it, but that is okay, because the wall is unremarkable.

“I walked by it the other day,” Grindelwald ( _that name means nothing_ ) continues ( _he is no one_ ). “Saw a witch in orange robes, with red hair. Square plaque on the wall. And a cart of orbs… highly secret. What is so secret that the Head of MLE may not enter without reason? The witch demanded a reason. She knew your name, called me Graves, said you had been there before. On the seventeenth of August.”

_Colors, dates, repetition – he’s feeding me details crafted to elicit memories more immediately… no, damn it, too much thought. No meaning behind the words. No reason behind what I’m doing, no knowledge left from years of training (stop thinking the word Occlumency) (and training) (and I). Blankness. The rough fabric of this clothing. The cool air of this room. Nothingness._

“701, a cart of mysteries. The witch. You were there in August.” The invading tendrils probe the surface of the wall, gently at first, then _strike_ with disconcerting strength. “Don’t make me keep asking about this, Graves. We’ve been at it one session too many, and you didn’t give me my answers last time. You don’t want to fight me on this, Graves. What is in that room at MACUSA? What reason must you give to gain entry?”

_A flash of the witch’s face –_

A flash of triumph on Grindelwald’s face –

_Blankness. Nothingness._

The triumph falls away. “You will give me what I want!”

The sound is a roar around him and the eyes with their tendrils are boring deep into his, but it is not too deep, because his wall is there. _The wall. Smooth gray. Oblivion_.

“I know you can do this. After all…” Grindelwald pauses, and the sudden silence doesn’t break his concentration, but it definitely bends it. He has never faced a better Legilimens ( _that word means nothing_ ) ( _you are a river_ ). “…Your mind coughed up all your memories of Credence, eventually.”

_CREDENCE_. A flash accompanies the name, too bright. The tendrils take interest. His mind is churning. _Nothing nothing nothing nothing_ and it takes so much effort to push away the distress, _the only way to be safe from this is to stop thinking about it_ , and he has to simply trust himself and let his mind move on, breaking with the last thought, leaving a lingering feeling of something important just out of reach.

Grindelwald marvels. “My, that got a reaction. I’ve seen him just this week, you know. So loyal. And still the same boy you knew. The same black clothing, the same soft black hair.”

Some unnamable emotion races through Graves, some kind of fear-anger-terror-panic-protective-rage, and he lets it. It is just an emotion and there are no words attached. It goes through him cleanly, in and then out again. _Water in a river._

“Should I give you a memory of him with me? You didn’t like that the last time we tried it. Let’s try it again.”

Grindelwald’s dark eyes seem to open up before him, and there’s a blank wall there too. When Graves pushes the tendrils of intrusion away from his own wall, he bumps into Grindelwald’s wall and can go no further. But then something bright appears in front of the wall and before Graves can help himself he _takes_ –

 

_“You were gone. I thought…”_

_“I would never abandon you, Credence. You are much too important to the cause.”_

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you, sir, I just – I’m sorry.”_

_“You can make up for it. Did you get a count from the last meeting?”_

_“Twenty-four children. Most of them local… maybe three I’ve never seen before. Is that… helpful?”_

_“More than you know… This will all work out, Credence. You’ll see. I know you’ll do great things, for me… you are the key, and as soon as I find what I need, you will never have to worry again.”_

_“There is… never mind.”_

_“Go on.”_

_“There is one thing. She… she didn’t just hurt me this time. Sir, it was Modesty. She hurt Modesty and I don’t think I could ever – if that happens again I don’t think I could –“_

_“I told you, it will be all right. As soon as we’ve completed our work, everything will be better. You’ll have nothing more to worry about.”_

_“Can you do anything to stop her now, though? … Please?”_

_“It would upset a delicate balance, Credence. I can’t interfere. The work you’re doing is the most important. The more quickly you help me, the sooner you and your sister can be free of her.”_

_“I’ll help you, please, just tell me what to do!”_

_“Take these flyers. At the next meeting I want you to sneak them in among the others. Watch how the children react. Tell me who stands out from the rest.”_

_“And… and you’ll stay? I mean, you’ll come back?”_

_“I will always come back, Credence. You are so important. Just trust me, and I promise, I will help you to be free.”_

_“Thank you, sir… thank you…”_

 

Graves breaks eye contact and dives downward, burying his face in the mattress and struggling to breathe. It all flashes into him so quickly – but not cleanly through him and out. This lingers. The terror in Credence’s eyes, and the tender trust, and the pain… no. He will think about that later. It will protect Credence not to think of him. Not to think of him and of what he might do if Modesty is hurt again, because there is a secret there that Graves must conceal at any cost –

Grindelwald grabs his chin in a searing grip and hauls him back up. _It washes through me and away. Only emotion. And then nothing. Blankness. I am in a river. I am a river. There is no I. Just a river. And a wall. And nothingness._

By the time Grindelwald regains eye contact, there is only a wall there, and Graves has made himself a shell of a person. The tendrils strike the wall and glance harmlessly away. He feels victory at Grindelwald’s displeased grimace, and does not remember why, and lets that emotion go through and away as well. _The echo of breathing. The pressure of the floor. This moment and no other. Oblivion._

Grindelwald sighs, a frustrated sound, and releases him from his grip and from his stare. Graves lies back on the mattress and shuts his eyes, not quite remembering why, but trusting the habits etched in by his past self. Even when a hand returns to grasp his elbow and siphon off his meager supply of energy, he does not react. It feels like rebellion. It feels like resistance.

There is the hum of one shield going up and another going down. The click of the wand lockbox. The slam of the door. The beat of Graves’s own heart.

When everything is dark and quiet again, and there is no mind in the room but his own, Graves opens his eyes. And he lets himself remember.

The pain in Credence’s eyes. The tender trust. What is Grindelwald doing to him? All of that trust, sweet and hard-won and intended for Graves, being warped away from its purpose by an imposter. Credence, just beginning to believe in his own worth and goodness, forced back into mind-games and self-doubt. That first beautiful hint of confidence chipping away. That first bloom of happiness withering on the vine, returning his eyes to shadow and his cheeks to ash.

The woman is still hurting him. Graves had a plan to stop the abuse, of course, but did not manage to complete it in time to save Credence – another entry in his long series of mistakes. One of the few that’s still painful, even now, after months of darkness and weakness and quiet resistance through blank mental walls.

Graves should be wondering how Credence fits into Grindelwald’s grander scheme, of course. How do these meetings with the boy further the cause of the war? And he does think about that – it is his job to figure these things out, after all, and he is very good at it. Was very good at it, before. He turns the problem over and over and tries to think it through.

But it is very difficult to focus on the greater war when the borrowed memory of Credence’s pain is so fresh in his mind and so clearly his fault. Grindelwald first discovered Credence in Graves’s mind, past a wall that was too weak, and something about Credence is so much more important than just being another piece for Grindelwald to move on his great invisible chessboard. And there are still scars on Credence’s hands…

Tears wet Graves’s face and, in the dark, he does not bother to wipe them away. This, now, he is allowed to feel. More penance. More fear. He could live decades of memory and love and loss in this cell, and he would still be utterly powerless, dwelling on a world beyond his reach. Wanting to hold Credence and heal his hands and bring him peace… but the thought leaves him hopeless and hollow, heart aching. There can be no happy reunion, and there can be no peace. How can he save this boy when he cannot even save himself?


End file.
